


Adduction

by La_Prima_Donna



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bottom Javert, First Meetings, Gym, I wrote this way too quickly, Implied Relationships, Implied Slash, Inspired by Roleplay/Roleplay Adaptation, Javert can't stop staring, Javert has long hair, Javert's Confused Boner, Large Cock, Love at First Sight, Lust at First Sight, M/M, Modern Era, My writing style is incredibly different here, Not Beta Read, Quast!vert, Sassy Javert, Size Kink, Swearing, Swearing in French, Valjean has prison tattoos, Valjean is a hot old man, Valjean's tight shorts, Wet Dream, dickprints, it doesn't actually matter, or is their first meeting, treadmill accidents, valvert - Freeform, working out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-23 16:39:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9665900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/La_Prima_Donna/pseuds/La_Prima_Donna
Summary: Javert was running on that treadmill, minding his own business, when a Greek god in obscenely tight shorts started flashing his glorious muscled at him. (Javert sees Valjean at the gym and can't control his feelings, or his feet.) Warning: French and English swearing. Some sexual content.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this is interesting. This is the first remotely sexual thing I've ever written for fandom, and I'm only a little bit embarrassed. Inspired by a roleplay, this fic is... weird, but makes a strange amount of sense to me.
> 
> I also have no idea what happened to my writing style. It's quite different than usual. There are a lot of dashes, italics, and run-on sentences where there wouldn't have been even yesterday. I'm confused too.
> 
> I hope you all enjoy!
> 
> Dedicated to Alex, the Javert to my impossibly muscular Valjean.

Javert /hated/ the gym. He hated the gym itself, and the irksome meatheads that dwelled within. He hated running for an hour on a treadmill, going nowhere and accomplishing nothing. But here he was, anyway. Chabouillet had told him that, as he was aging, he needed to work out more if he didn’t want to be confined to desk duty. 

If there was one thing Javert hated more that the gym, it was desk duty. So, early on Saturday morning, he dug some old workout-worthy clothes out of the bottom of his closet and drove to the nearest gym. He scowled all the way from his front door to the treadmill, thinking of all the ways he’d rather be spending his Saturday. With a final sigh, he yanked his ponytail to tighten it, and stepped on the treadmill. He set it to a jogging speed to start, and began his run to nowhere. 

It was just a minute into his workout that he realized his breathing was becoming laboured. When had he let himself become so out of shape? Frustrated, he set the speed higher. He would show his body what it was meant to do. 

It was then that a flash of bright colour from somewhere to his left caught his eye. He looked – carefully, so as not to accidentally trip – and noticed someone else entering the gym. He’d hoped that by coming early he’d avoid the crowds of gym rats. And he had; there were only 5 or so other people, mostly women, for whatever reason. But now, he supposed, the first of the young, broad-shouldered, dull-brained gym-goers were filtering in. This man, who walked in front of where Javert was running, towards some other machines the inspector could not name, was wearing an absolutely hideous combination of a neon green muscle shirt and red shorts. He was tall, and his entire body was rippling with muscle, especially his arms, which were covered with simple black tattoos. However, this man was distinctly not of the demographic Javert was dreading; despite his body’s more-than-toned nature, the man’s fluffy silver hair and beard betrayed his advanced age. 

Javert scowled. If a man whose hair was completely grey could be in such good shape, he had no excuse. He turned the treadmill’s speed a little higher. 

Having nothing else to do, Javert watched the old man. He simply wanted to know what a senior citizen could do to be in such good shape. 

The man began to stretch first. /Damn,/ thought Javert, /Maybe I should have done that. Next time, I suppose./ The old man reached down to his toes – /he’s more flexible than I am/ – stood up straight and reached to his sides, did all kinds of things that Javert figured are important to do before exercising. All kinds of things that showcased to Javert the man’s superior flexibility, and, sometimes, causing his atrocious-coloured shirt to ride up and give Javert a glance of more tattoos, and of the solid, powerful muscles on the man’s torso. This made Javert blush. He really shouldn’t be staring like this. But the old man was… Impressive. Attractive.

Attractive? Javert almost scoffed at himself. He wasn’t the type to find people /attractive/. But it was undeniable, with this man. He was so incredibly muscular, and what little of his face Javert had been able to see was charmingly handsome. His beard and his hair were well-groomed, and his body was only covered with a light smattering of hair. Despite being old, the man was attractive. Or perhaps, Javert thought with an internal bark of laughter, Javert was getting so old himself that he could only fancy fellow seniors. But this man here was no withering grandfather. He was built like a Greek God. Perhaps, Javert thought, he was Zeus. That would explain the silver beard.

Too bad the man had so many unsightly tattoos. Without them, Javert might have had something to think fondly about during his post-workout shower.

Javert was appalled at himself. Whatever made him this way? He needed to clear his head; he increased his speed a little more.

However, the inspector’s thoughts soon returned to his Zeus; apparently done his stretching, the man walked over to some machine, and sat down on at it, his broad back facing Javert. Almost directly in front of him, three or so metres ahead. Javert wanted to groan; it would be nearly impossible to avoid watching him now. He decided he’d might as well give in.

The machine involved pulling a hanging bar down towards one’s chest, and letting it go back up. Javert did not know what muscles it worked, or whether or not it was useful, or anything at all, really, but he was fascinated. Fascinated by how the man’s back muscles flexed and moved under his taut, pale skin. He’d never thought that back muscles were even remotely interesting. Until now. And his biceps… Oh, Lord, the way they bulged out as the man pulled down on the bar was hypnotizing. Javert felt as if he were in a trance, brought on by his endless running and the repetition of those rippling muscles. It was such a shock when the man broke his pattern and stood up. He swung his arms back and forth, giving the muscles a break. Javert, with his mental faculties returning, scolded himself. He was acting like a child! What business did he have to watch this man like this, anyway? The old man had the right to a spectator-free workout as much as anyone else did. Javert became ashamed of himself. He turned up the speed on the treadmill, though his legs were beginning to beg him otherwise. And his lungs, and the sweat that was beginning to coat his body in a layer of /ick/. He ran on anyway, thinking the pain might teach him not to be so foolish. What if the old man noticed his stare? He would doubtlessly be angry, and, well, Javert’s police experience couldn’t help him much against this God of a man. He resigned himself to look away, at anything but that man, anything but that man…

Who was currently using some machine that somehow required him to /push his legs open and closed repeatedly/. Javert tried to keep his face neutral as he observed this, but he felt that his eyes were widening and his face was beginning to flush even more than it already had been from the exercise. Javert couldn’t help it. Those massive thighs were just as entrancing as his back and biceps and the rest of his entire perfect body. And then Javert’s eyes wandered lower still and beheld the singular most obscene thing that ever existed. Every time the man pushed those glorious thighs apart, Javert’s eyes were scandalized by the old man’s crotch, and the massive bulge therein. The inspector felt his throat go dry, and not just from the workout. The guy’s cock was huge. Unbelievably so. Javert had never seen anything like it, truly. The unmistakable, indecently obvious outline of the man’s penis in his sinfully tight red shorts appeared and disappeared, again and again, as those thick thighs opened and closed, opened and closed, and Javert felt light headed, felt confused, felt everything at once, felt himself trip over his own feet and faceplant onto the treadmill, felt himself spin and land on his back on the ground. 

Javert groaned as pain bloomed in practically every part of his body. /Putain/, he cursed mentally.

“Are you alright?” asked someone, a man.

“Yeah,” Javert lied.

He heard the treadmill slowing down. Whoever had just spoken had probably just turned it off. How kind of them. 

“You sure? That looked like quite the fall,” continued the voice. 

“I assure you, the only thing injured is my dignity,” Javert lied again – well, that was much closer to the truth.

The man laughed. Javert frowned, though the speaker didn’t seem to be laughing at him.

“It’s alright. It happens to everyone, really. Let me help you up, if you’re sure you’re alright.”

And then, in a blur of neon green, the man stepped into his view, holding a hand out to Javert. The man, as in /The Man/. The one with the hideous clothes and the godlike body and the penis large enough to cause treadmill accidents. Javert wanted to sink into the ground and die.

His emotions must have shown on his face, or at least some of them, because the God-man gave him a kind smile. “Really, you don’t need to be embarrassed. Everyone who has ever used a treadmill has tripped, I guarantee you. There’s no shame in it.”

/Right, no shame in drooling over an old man’s cock until you trip over your own goddamned feet/, Javert wanted to say, but instead he simply muttered his awkward thanks to the man and took his outstretched hand. Calloused, sweaty, strong, pulling him up – the man’s other hand is on his back, steadying him – /oh, I’m standing now. I’m awfully close to this man. He smells like sweat and cologne. He smells like sex. He’s even hotter up close, my God… Merde, I’m still holding his hand/.

Javert stepped back on aching feet, pulling away from the man – blushing still, always blushing. He realized what he must look like. Sweaty, and not in the way the unfairly hot man was, not in the gleaming-muscles type way, but in the disgusting swamp-monster type way. His face was an unsightly bright red (not unlike the man’s shorts, those tight, tight shorts), and some of his hair was escaping from his once orderly ponytail, as Javert wished he could escape from this world. He looked like a mess, and here he was, standing in front of the most beautiful human specimen on the planet. 

“I’m Jean, by the way,” the man –Jean, obviously– said, offering his hand again – /must I really touch him again? How is this allowed?/ – to Javert, who took it gingerly. 

“Javert,” replied the Inspector. Jean’s hand was touching his again, and Javert was surprised his brain functioned. Jean. Of course the man’s name had to be Jean. A common, boring name was all that could possible take attention away from him.

“Javert? You’re French too, then?”

Right. Jean wasn’t a common name here in New York. “Yes. I lived in France when I was younger, actually.”

Jean was smiling, his strong hand releasing Javert’s. “Really? So did I.”

The policeman didn’t exactly care. He still really wanted to sink into the ground. /Maybe I ought to move back to France… No, too many Jeans there./

“Sorry, but have you come here before? I’ve never seen you,” asked Jean.

“No, this is my first time here,” Javert answered. /And my last/, he left out. 

“Ah, welcome, then!” Jean said with a beautifully charming smile. “I hope you’ll like it here as much as I do. I come every morning– well, except on Sundays. I have church in the morning, so I come Sunday evenings.” A pause. “Will I see you here again? After your dignity feels better, of course.”

Javert felt like he was actually sinking into the floor. He shoved a stray piece of hair behind his ear. “I, um… Sure.”

Jean smiled even wider. “Wonderful! I look forward to it.”

The inspector didn’t even realize what he had said until he heard Jean’s reaction to it. He wanted to scream. 

Jean cleared his throat. “Well, although it’s been lovely talking to you, I do believe I wasn’t finished with my leg adductions.” 

/Ah, so that’s what it’s called when you repeatedly display the obelisk in your shorts you call your penis,/ Javert resisted the urge to say. 

“So, uh,” Jean continued at the lack of an answer, “See you around, okay?”

Javert nodded. “See you.”

The inspector wasted no time in getting the hell out of there. 

That night, inspector Javert’s dreams were tinted neon green, and filled with bulging muscles, silvery hair, and legs being abducted, or whatever Jean has said he was doing. His subconscious mind battered him with images of Jean’s smile, Jean’s eyes, Jean’s shorts, Jean’s obscene bulge… Jean’s massive cock frotting against Javert’s own, Jean’s calloused hands roaming over his body, the sweat that gleamed off Jean’s godly form as they rutted into each other with fervent passion…

Javert woke the next morning, feeling uncomfortable. Uncomfortably sore in his legs, his bottom, and his back, but most of all, uncomfortably erect from his dream, and uncomfortably eager to go back to the gym.

Javert smirked. He was going mad, that was certain. But, God, was he ever going to be in good shape.


End file.
